


Treading Water

by DiscordantWords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Case, Conversations, Don't copy to another site, Fandom Trumps Hate, John is a Mess, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29446416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/pseuds/DiscordantWords
Summary: It is not working. Whatever John was hoping to accomplish over these past six months, whatever he was hoping to prove by selling the little house he'd shared with Mary and returning to build a home out of the rubble of Baker Street has not come to pass. He is a welcome presence, but he is miserable.As their personal and professional relationship slowly unravels under an intangible strain, a case forces Sherlock and John to spend the night inside the London Aquarium.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 74
Kudos: 156
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [khorazir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/gifts).



> This is for Khorazir, who kindly bid on me in the 2019 Fandom Trumps Hate charity auction and has been so patiently waiting ever since. Thank you so much for your patience with me, and I hope that this story was worth the wait!
> 
> Thank you so much to [thetimemoves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteOut) for all of the cheerleading and support, and for letting me ramble on and on about my ideas for this one!

**PROLOGUE**

*

The water is warm and insistent, pressing in on all sides. There is a moment of buoyancy, weightless and hovering, and then Sherlock sinks. 

Sharks circle below; great grey shapes, distorted by the rippling water, deceptively placid. They pay him very little attention as he drifts downward. 

He attempts to return the favour. 

The wetsuit and mask have muted his senses. He is overly aware of his own heartbeat, the throb of blood in his veins, the pull in his chest that is an ever-deepening reminder of his last drawn breath. In contrast, the world around him is muddled, blurred and indistinct and very, very blue. 

He does not have much time and so he refocuses, kicks, dives down towards the bottom, past artfully arranged stone carvings and gently waving plants. 

There is a flurry of motion in his periphery and he turns, muscles tensed, ready to—well, he's not sure what, exactly, but he's not particularly keen on being eaten. However unlikely that may be.

It is not a shark that has caught his eye. It is, instead, a sea of eager faces pressed up against the glass. Children. His descent has drawn attention. This is inconvenient. 

It is Saturday afternoon. Peak time for the London Aquarium. A crowd is unavoidable. Perhaps he could have timed this better. That's the sort of thing that John might have suggested. 

He has, for obvious reasons, elected to exclude John from this particular jaunt. 

His chest tightens. He is able to hold his breath for just over three minutes. He has practised, over the years. Sort of thing that comes in handy in his line of work. (Still, there is always room for improvement. Three minutes will tick by quickly, and he's likely to be intercepted when he returns to the surface for another breath. There will not be an opportunity for a second dive.)

It has been thirty-two seconds. 

A shark glides past him, a bit too close for comfort, all flat black eyes and jagged teeth. His heart rate jumps, an involuntary but unnecessary response. He wastes time consulting his mind palace. _Sand tiger shark._ The jutting, razor-sharp teeth affect a ferocious appearance, but they are considered a docile species. 

A larger crowd is gathering against the glass to his left. Topside, the attendant who fitted him with the suit and mask has almost certainly discovered his deception. 

It had been easy enough to purchase tickets to the snorkeling experience, and even easier than that to distract the attendant and send him scuttling from the room in search of a better-fitting mask (and, perhaps, to have a bit of a cry—he'd been rather ruthless with his deductions). Sherlock had not wasted any time. He'd slipped into the water, bypassed the cage meant to allow tourists to experience a controlled adrenaline rush, and descended in search of his quarry. 

Sixty-four seconds. 

He gropes along the false seafloor, hands slipping through sand and silt, until he finds what he is looking for. He grins, and the mouthpiece of the useless snorkel drops from his lips. 

There is a thrill of satisfaction, a familiar electric rush humming through his veins that comes with being _right,_ and he lifts the severed human hand (male, sawed off at the wrist, skin showing signs of decomposition and only partially nibbled at by marine life) up over his head in triumph. 

Only to remember the children at the glass. 

He swivels, attempts to hide the hand behind his back. He is still grinning, he realises belatedly, and he clamps his mouth shut. His gaze slides past the crush of horrified faces—shocked and wide-eyed children, shouting parents, gleeful teens holding up their phones, at least three security guards (foolish, they'd never be able to get at him from down there), and—

Oh.

John. John, who is decidedly _not supposed to be there,_ pressed flush against the glass, shouting something indistinct. 

Sherlock breathes out, all in a rush. There is a painful twist behind his ribs, accompanied by the odd swoop of elation that only ever seems to happen when John does something unexpected. It makes him want to grin again, propriety be damned. He manages to control himself, but only just. 

There is no room for smiling, here. Not here, in the building where Mary died. Which is why John should not be here at all. 

John is still shouting, pounding on the glass, and now he's been tackled by a security guard, and Sherlock needs to breathe, he needs to be rising towards the surface, but he cannot pull his eyes away. 

The tiger shark glides by again, close, _very_ close, bumping his shoulder. Sherlock nearly drops the hand. 

Ah. That must have been what John was shouting about. 

His chest is very tight now. He turns away from the glass, kicks his fins. He keeps a firm grip on the hand. There is little point in trying to conceal it from view now. 

The damage has been done.


	2. Chapter 2

*

It is on a Thursday morning, over breakfast, that Sherlock realises it is time to let John go. 

The kitchen smells faintly of burnt toast. His mug of tea is still warm, and he holds it without drinking. John is rumpled and bleary-eyed on the other side of the table, trying to coax a forkful of egg into Rosie's stubborn mouth. 

It is a doomed endeavour. Sherlock can see it at once. Both John and his daughter have slept poorly, have _been_ sleeping poorly for the last several nights. They are crammed together in the little bedroom at the top of the stairs, close enough for John's troubled dreams to disturb Rosie, for Rosie's tossing and turning to roust John. 

They have descended the stairs together, sharp-edged and ill-tempered. There will be no peace until Rosie settles for an afternoon nap. 

Sherlock watches them. John is frustrated. It is telegraphed in the quick, jerky motion of his hands, in his heavy sighs, in the tight twist of his mouth. Rosie is uncooperative, uninterested in her breakfast, teetering on the edge of a full-blown meltdown. She has begun to whinge, the sound persistent, droning. 

It is not working. Whatever John was hoping to accomplish over these past six months, whatever he was hoping to prove by selling the little house he'd shared with Mary and returning to build a home out of the rubble of Baker Street has not come to pass. He is a welcome presence, but he is _miserable._

Sherlock looks down at the table. It is new. The old table was blown to bits by his sister's grenade. This surface is clean, unscuffed. There are no bloodstains, no chemical burns. John wipes it down in the mornings and evenings, after they eat. 

A clatter and a curse as Rosie swats the fork out of John's hand. She throws her head back and begins to shriek. John crouches down to retrieve the fork, puts his head in his hands. 

Sherlock swallows, studies him. The smell of tea and toast, normally comforting, turns his stomach. He wants to drop down next to John on the floor, wants to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, wants to pull him close. He has lived with that want for years. It has etched itself into his bones. He has learned to ignore it, but it never fades. 

John has returned home, to Baker Street, and he is miserable. 

This is not a happy ending. This is John clinging to the familiar amidst a sea of change, clutching at the waterlogged scraps of his foundered life and trying not to drown. John is only here because he believes he has nowhere else to go. 

Sherlock is happy to have him here. He thinks that it is probably selfish, that happiness, but he cannot bring himself to be sorry for it. He is happy. He does not have what he wants, not quite, but that is all right. There is tea and toast in the morning and takeaway in the evening and Rosamund is a lively and unpredictable presence. There are cases, when John is free and able to leave the flat, and lazy afternoons watching crap telly when he is not. He is still bored, sometimes, but the boredom no longer grates at him. He has learned to live with it, the way he has learned to live with so many things.

John concludes his moment of quiet despair and picks up the fork. Stands. He goes to the sink, runs the fork under the tap. In her chair, Rosie goes on wailing. 

It is hard for her, Sherlock thinks. She is angry, but unable to articulate why. She is tired and frustrated and hungry and furious and can do nothing about it except scream. Her words often desert her when her temper is high. She is two years old and terrifyingly, fiercely independent. She needs her own space. She had her own bedroom in John and Mary's dull little house in the suburbs. She is used to sleeping alone. 

And John is . . . not. 

John is lonely. He will not admit that out loud, Sherlock knows as much, but John has always sought out romantic companionship. He has abstained for quite some time, likely out of guilt, but he is lonely and he is restless and—

Sherlock could keep him. He knows that. The wild waters of the last tumultuous year have receded and left John beached and gasping and scrambling for purchase on familiar ground. He will cling to the dubious comforts he has found, and will not venture out on his own again. 

Sherlock could keep him, could go on pretending that everything is fine. He has what he wants, after all. Well, near enough. 

Sherlock could keep him, but what he wants comes at the direct expense of John's happiness and well-being. It is unacceptable, unsustainable. John is collapsing before his very eyes.

A girlfriend might help. Something serious, something stable, something that comes with a sunny flat with a spare bedroom for Rosie. Someone to give John all of the things that Sherlock cannot. (Or, at the very least, all of the things that he does not want from Sherlock.)

John will not seek this out on his own. Not now, not after everything that has happened. He is not particularly skilled at identifying his own needs. Never has been. It was one of the very first things Sherlock deduced about him, a theory he'd proven right when John had abandoned his cane to sprint behind him across rooftops. 

John does not ask for help. Sherlock provides it, regardless. 

Attempting to replace Mary would be a fool's errand. Mary was quite unique. Remarkable and skilled and very, very dangerous. Impulsive. Witty. (Bit hasty with her trigger finger, but everyone has their flaws.) Even if he could find someone comparable, John would likely balk at being deliberately set up with another assassin. He'd not been particularly keen on that bit the first time around.

Besides, what Sherlock had liked about Mary had very little to do with her skillset. 

All of John's previous relationships had eventually come down to a choice: _me or him._ And John had always, always chosen Sherlock. 

But he would not have chosen Sherlock over Mary. Not that night in the Landmark, and not any of the nights that had come after. If Mary had elected to force the issue, John Watson would have severed himself from Sherlock's life cleanly, with surgical precision.

She had not forced the issue.

Sherlock is grateful for that. He will always be grateful for that. There was affection there, between him and Mary. It was the sort of affection that felt a bit like a gunshot to the chest, a bit like surgery, painful and wrenching and skirting the edges of fatal, but it was there all the same. He liked her. He is sorry she is dead. He is particularly sorry that she died in his stead. He thinks John is sorry about that too, though they do not talk about it. He does not want to talk about it. Thinking it is one thing, but hearing John admit out loud that he'd rather Sherlock had died that night at the aquarium might be worse than that gunshot to the chest in the end. 

John feels guilty. It bleeds out of him at odd moments, making him hesitate over things that had once seemed to come naturally. He no longer flirts. He rarely smiles. His fleeting moments of joy seem reserved entirely for his daughter. 

If left to his own devices, he is likely to choose Mary's polar opposite. Someone safe and predictable and dull. Someone with no interesting secrets to uncover. Someone doting and sweet and so entirely devoid of personality that he'll be able to slide into a relationship without needing to _feel_ anything for her (and oh, if he feels nothing there will be no guilt, of that Sherlock is well aware). And before he even knows what's happening he'll be packed up and whisked off to tedious dinner parties in the suburbs and boring seaside holidays. He'll settle into a full time GP position (steady hours, more stable than locum work, more suited to family life). There will be no more adventures, and he will lose himself, bit by bit, even more so than he is now.

For God's sake, he'd been dangerously bored playing at domestic life in the suburbs once already, and that was _with_ an assassin for a wife. 

So no, if there is to be a girlfriend, if there is to be someone to step in and lift John Watson from his self-imposed misery, it will need to be someone who meets a certain exacting standard. Sherlock's standard. Someone who is interesting enough to catch John's attention, but who is established enough in her own career and interests that she does not wish to have John's attention _all the time._

And if he is able to find such a woman, he will let John go. He will not fight it. He will let John go, and hope only to lay claim to the scraps that remain. He vows it, to himself, there at the kitchen table with the burnt toast scent hanging in the air and his unfinished mug of tea (lukewarm now) cradled against his palms. He will let John go, because that is what John needs.

And he would do anything for John Watson. 

*

"'Dear Mr Holmes,'" John reads out loud later, much later. He is on the sofa, the Union Jack pillow tucked behind his back, his laptop balanced on his knees. The sky has long gone dark outside and the warm lamplight casts him in a flattering glow. 

Rosamund is upstairs, asleep. She falls asleep easily. It is keeping her there that is the trouble, particularly when John goes up to join her. He has been staying up later and later, wearing a groove into the sofa. It should not please Sherlock, but it does. He likes having John with him. He always has. 

"Case?" he asks. 

"Something like that," John says. He clears his throat, looks down at the laptop. His face is lit by a faint blue glow as he begins to read. "'My big brother Eddie told me that they feed bad children to the sharks at the London Aquarium.'" 

Ice slides down Sherlock's spine.

John lifts his head, looks at him. He is smiling, which seems impossible, because the mere mention of the aquarium has surely sucked all of the oxygen from the room. 

Sherlock swallows. He is expected to say something. It could not possibly be appropriate to mention Mary, not now, not with John smiling at him from the sofa. 

"I suppose they left that bit off the tourist literature," John says mildly. 

A joke. John has made a joke. Sherlock's mouth twists, an involuntary spasm, almost a smile. He quashes it, makes a show of rearranging himself in his chair instead. 

John purses his lips, looks down at the screen again. Resumes reading. "'I thought he was just trying to scare me, but now I think he's telling the truth.'" 

"I don't have time for ghost stories and childish pranks," Sherlock says. His voice is rough, too rough, and he clears his throat. "Just delete it." 

"Poor kid can't be more than eight years old," John says. "Just—listen to this, yeah?" He glances up, meets Sherlock's eye again, and nods, as if confirming something. He begins to read again. "'We went to see the sharks today. One of them swam by really close and it was eating a human hand. I swear it was. I swear it. I tried to show my mom but it swam away and she doesn't believe me. She just shouted at me for scaring my sister, but it isn't fair because Eddie scares me all the time and he doesn't get in trouble.'" 

"Fairly typical of big brothers, so I understand." Sherlock looks away, tries not to think of sharks behind glass, of Mary dying on the ground. Flat, lifeless eyes.

"'Please help. I don't want to end up as fish food. And I don't want anyone else to end up as fish food either, not even Eddie even though he's mean sometimes and might deserve it,'" John concludes. He is smiling again. "Signed Billy Porter, age eight and a half." 

"Tell him to avoid the water," Sherlock says. He stands up, smooths damp palms over his trouser legs. "That ought to take care of his problem." 

John closes the laptop. He says nothing, but he is no longer smiling. 

Sherlock hesitates, indecisive, studying him. "Sharks are disinterested in human flesh," he says, finally. 

John dips his head, lifts his brows. It is a bemused expression. 

"As is often the case, the truth runs contrary to portrayals in popular media. Most shark attacks are a case of mistaken identity, so to speak." Sherlock looks down at his hands, swallows. "Wrong place, wrong time. Surfers, for instance, resemble seals from below." 

"Seals." 

"In any case, sharks would make for a terribly unreliable corpse disposal system." 

"Right," John says, after a pause that has stretched on a bit too long. "Well. Guess we can chalk this one up to an overactive imagination, yeah?" 

"Clearly." 

"Though that glowing rabbit thing wound up being true." 

Sherlock blinks at him, thrown. "One has nothing to do with the other." 

"I know," John says, and he is smiling again, the expression infuriating because it simply makes no sense, there is no reason for it. "Just. You know. Kids can surprise you sometimes." 

Sherlock does not know what to say to that, and so he says nothing. 

*

John is still watching telly, the volume turned down, when Sherlock finally gives up and retreats into his bedroom. 

There are things they should talk about, he thinks. That's what people do. They talk about things. Important things. 

Like the fact that John is avoiding his own bedroom. The fact that their living arrangement is not working out for him. The fact that he is lonely and miserable and trying very hard to pretend he is not.

They should talk about it. But he does not want to hear John say it out loud. Saying it out loud means he'll have to do something about it. And he doesn't want—he knows he'll have to, eventually, but—

Not yet. Just. Not yet. 

Sherlock closes his eyes and thinks of water, rippling blue. 

*

On Friday morning, Mrs Hudson shows a woman into their sitting room. She is tall and slim, her dark hair pulled back into a neat twist. She is well-dressed and reasonably attractive, at least as far as Sherlock can tell. He can see nothing wrong with her face. 

A trial run, Sherlock thinks, ignoring the phantom pain that knifes through his chest. He will nudge John in her direction and observe the results. An experiment. For John. 

She introduces herself. He automatically deletes her name, then regrets it. (Force of habit. He'll need to work on that if he intends to ingratiate himself to John's future paramours.) She is a doctor, he deduces. Brilliant. She and John will have loads in common. 

John sits down in his chair, balancing Rosie on his lap. He flips open his little notebook, grimaces as Rosie immediately grabs for it. 

Sherlock watches the woman watching John. She smiles at Rosie (good). Her eyes flick towards his left hand (newly bare of his wedding ring, a promising sign). She touches her own face, brushing at an imaginary strand of hair (common flirtation technique). 

She is speaking. She has been speaking for quite a while. Perhaps it is time to tune back in. 

"Someone's been messing about with the cadavers," she says. 

Sherlock glances at John, who seems similarly taken aback. 

"Sorry, what?" John says. 

"The cadavers we use for anatomy classes," she says. "For dissection." 

Sherlock adds _teacher_ to his mental checklist. He looks her up and down. "King's College?" 

She gives him a strange look. "Er, yes." 

"Said that already," John murmurs. 

Ah. He supposes her credentials had been part of the whole introduction bit he'd filtered out. 

"Just verifying the details," he says, and aims a smile in her direction. Perhaps a bit too many teeth; he sees John flinch in his periphery.

He looks her up and down. Doctor. Instructor. Travels frequently. (Medical conferences? Lectures? Likely both.) Jogs recreationally. No children. No pets. 

She natters on a bit about the cadavers. They've been moving around. Switching drawers. It seems, she tells them (with disappointing sincerity), that the laboratory is haunted. (He is unable to avoid rolling his eyes, and winces when John shoots him a reproachful look.) And now, one of the unlucky bodies has vanished entirely. 

It is quite clearly a prank, and not a particularly interesting one. For God's sake, it's not as if the damn thing has got up and walked off on its own.

John seems riveted, though. He has managed to settle Rosie against his chest, her blond curls tucked up under his chin. He is listening intently, jotting notes. 

He catches Sherlock's eye. Raises his brows. The sunlight filtering through the window paints his hair in shades of gold. 

Sherlock swallows, hard. Looks away.

"And we haven't been able to—" 

"It's a prank," he cuts in, unable to bear any more. 

The woman looks at him. John stops writing. 

"Um," she says. She folds her hands, sliding her thumb along the bare skin on her ring finger. Her expression is troubled. "What?" 

"A prank, a joke, a behaviour that stupid people engage in for fun," he says, irritation mounting as confusion flits across her face. She turns to look at John, clearly seeking an ally. 

"Yes, I—" she says, faltering a bit. "Forgive me if I've missed something here, but don't jokes typically have a punchline?" 

Sherlock opens his mouth. 

"Sherlock," John says, his voice low. A warning. 

Ah. She has made a favourable impression. John clearly does not want Sherlock to drive her off. Well, good. That is good, right? It should be good. 

"I can only presume the cadaver _is_ the punchline," Sherlock says. "Or, rather, whatever inconvenient place it's been stashed in. It'll turn up soon. If nothing else, the smell should give it away." 

"But _why?_ And who would—?"

"You've told us that this laboratory is believed to be haunted." He smiles faintly. 

"Well, yes," she says. "You must admit that it's all a bit unsettling." 

He cannot quite keep himself from scoffing. "And have the students and faculty changed their behaviour in line with this new—superstition?" 

"Most of them avoid it," she concedes. "Except when absolutely necessary. And particularly at night." 

"Then I suggest you look through your rosters and find the person who might benefit from an empty laboratory at night." 

"But—" she says.

"You're recently divorced," Sherlock says. 

"Sherlock," John says again, sharper this time. 

She looks startled, but recovers with admirable speed. "Um. Well—yes, actually. Signed the papers three months ago, but we were separated for a bit before that. Sorry, but, is that relevant?" 

"Your case is not worth my time," Sherlock says. "But that's not the only thing you're after here, is it?" 

"I—" 

"I'll save you the trouble of asking," Sherlock says. "John is widowed. He's partial to Italian, insipid action films, and already has childcare secured for the evening." 

"All right," John says. He slaps his notebook shut with a bit more force than necessary, stands up. "I'll walk you out, yeah?"

She looks between them, somewhat flustered. Well. John does tend to have that effect on women.

Sherlock remains in his chair as they leave. He listens as they descend the stairs—her heels (sensible height, chosen with long hours on her feet in mind) clicking on the wood. John's own tread is slightly uneven. He's got Rosie balanced on one hip and is overcompensating for the weight distribution. His shoulder will ache later, and he will not know why. He'll take two paracetamol. Perhaps indulge in a hot shower. 

Unless—

Sherlock tilts his head, listens. There is a murmur of voices at the door. Too low to make out. More conversation than strictly necessary for a polite parting. 

Perhaps John will have other plans tonight after all. 

He presses his lips together. He is suddenly terribly aware of his own hands, empty and restless. Downstairs, the door clicks shut. The stairs creak under John's footsteps. 

"What was that?" John asks him as he comes back through the door. Rosie is still on his hip. She seems to be in good spirits. He has given her his notebook and she clutches it in small hands. 

"Case," Sherlock says. He smiles, a bright, false thing. "Haunted morgue, missing cadaver. Weren't you paying attention?" 

"Not the case," John snaps. "All of—that. With Julia." 

"First name basis already? You _do_ work fast." 

"First name basis—?" John shakes his head. "That's how she introduced herself. For Christ's sake, Sherlock, you were _there._ " 

"I try not to burden myself with unnecessary details."

Rosie drops the notebook. She strains in John's arms, reaching out grasping arms. He sighs and bends down to grab it. When he straightens up, it is with a grunt of effort. 

"Look, stop trying to distract me. Or. Or whatever you're doing. You and I both know you can run circles around me when you want to—" 

"Mmm," Sherlock agrees.

"I want to know what that was, just now." John absently hands Rosie the notebook again. She waves it in the air, the pages fluttering, then begins prodding him in the cheek. 

Sherlock taps his fingertips against the armrests to hide the inexplicable tremor in his hands. "You'll have to be more specific." 

"Well. It seemed a hell of a lot like you were trying to set us up. Except I can't, exactly, think of any reason why you'd want to do that." 

Sherlock frowns. "She's a reasonably attractive woman in your age range. Recently divorced. Responded favourably to your daughter's presence. Clearly interested—she glanced at your left hand to gauge your marital status almost immediately." 

John shakes his head. He looks utterly flummoxed. "And?" 

"And it seemed like she might need a bit of prompting to get on with what she really wanted to do, which was ask you to dinner." 

"Right," John says, and blows out a puff of air through his teeth. He does not look particularly pleased. "Well. Prompting accomplished, then. She's asked me to dinner." 

"Ah," Sherlock says. He swallows, looks down. Something twists in his chest. 

"Had to turn her down." John scratches at the back of his neck with the hand that is not supporting Rosie. He looks up at the ceiling, huffs out an uncomfortable little laugh. "Bit awkward, after all that." 

"You turned her down. Why? She ticked all of the boxes." 

John looks back at him. "Boxes? What are you on about?" 

"I don't understand. Was there something wrong with her face?" 

"Her face?" John looks more bewildered than before, which is saying something. "Her face was fine. _She_ was fine. I just wasn't—" 

"Ready," Sherlock sighs. He should have anticipated this. 

"—interested," John says, and frowns. "Are you all right?" 

Sherlock sits up straight, surprised. "Not interested? Why aren't you interested? By my calculations—" 

"Sherlock. I don't need you calculating anything about my personal life. Yeah? Just. Leave it." 

Sherlock looks at him. He can read nothing of importance in his expression. 

"Leave it," John says again. 

*

The sitting room has been gated off to allow Rosie to roam with a certain measure of freedom. She, however, delights in testing boundaries (Sherlock has read countless websites that assure him that this is normal behaviour for a child her age), and takes the opportunity of a moment's distraction to make a break past the gate and into the kitchen. 

Sherlock catches her, lifts her up. She is holding a lolly and she wastes no time in pressing it against his shirt. He peels it away, looks at the sticky red smear it has left in its wake. 

He glances down the hall towards the bathroom, where John has disappeared not more than five minutes ago. The water is running. He can detect a faint trace of warm humidity in the air, and, carried with it, the scent of John's shampoo. 

Rosie squirms in his arms. She is startlingly strong for one so very small. Her hair is an unruly mess of golden ringlets. Her eyes are Mary's, her nose John's. He has not yet made up his mind about her chin. 

She is not his daughter, but he loves her just the same. He thinks that John might be surprised to know that about him. But there are truths that John, who knows him better than anyone, has still managed to miss. 

He abhors sentiment. That does not mean he does not feel it. Love is destructive, but he is not immune to its effects. 

He loves her, this wild-haired child with her sweet smiles and fearsome temper. He will miss her, when John leaves. His flat will be so terribly, terribly empty. 

Sherlock sets her down on the ground and shoos her back towards the sitting room. She twists away from him, darts through his legs, bolts towards his bedroom instead. He gives chase, skids to a halt as the bathroom door opens and John steps out in a cloud of steam. 

John is wrapped in a dressing gown. His hair is wet and spiky, his skin shiny with moisture. He looks warm, and relaxed, and soft in a way that Sherlock rarely sees anymore. (Hasn't seen in years, not since they'd last lived together.) The hot water has clearly done its part in soothing his aching shoulder, much as Sherlock had expected. 

They are face-to-face, much too close in the narrow hallway. 

Sherlock swallows, watches a bead of water drip from John's earlobe and trace a slow, winding pattern down his neck. 

John laughs, a low, self-conscious sort of sound, and reaches up a hand to wipe it away. "Er, Sherlock? Mind stepping out of the way?" 

There is a reason he is here in the narrow hallway between the kitchen and his bedroom. A reason that has nothing whatsoever to do with John Watson and clean skin and the scent of mint toothpaste and aftershave. 

"Sorry," Sherlock says, stepping back to allow John to pass. He holds up the lolly, uses it to gesture down the hall. "There's been a jail break." 

He can hear Rosie rustling in his room, dragging open his dresser drawers. His sock index is most assuredly doomed. 

John's eyes skim over Sherlock's shirt, snagging on the stain. Then he looks over his shoulder, towards the bedroom. He seems tired, all at once, the fresh-scrubbed youth of him withering away under the kitchen lights. "Oh. Sorry about that. I'll—" 

"It's no trouble," Sherlock says, and turns away, walks briskly towards his room. He can no longer quite bear to look at John's face. 

Rosie lets out an irate squeal of " _NO!_ " and throws a sock in his direction as he enters the room. Undeterred, he scoops her up, carries her kicking and screaming down the hall and back to the gated off area in the sitting room. 

"Sorry," John says again, moments later, as he descends the stairs in jeans and a soft-looking jumper that Sherlock aches to touch. His hair is still damp, his face still tired. "Shouldn't have taken so long in the shower." 

"It's fine," Sherlock says, because it is. 

A cautious glance in John's direction tells him that John may not believe him. 

*

Lestrade phones him from a crime scene. 

"Waiter dropped dead in the middle of lunch service," Lestrade says. "We'll need to get the toxicology report, but it looks like poisoning. Will you come? I think that there might be—what _is_ that sound?"

Rosie has climbed up into John's chair and commenced with a vigorous bouncing. The springs squeal. 

"Hop- _HOP_ hop- _HOP_ hop- _HOP!_ "

"Um," Sherlock says.

"Oh, Christ," John says. "Rosie, don't—" he grabs her and lifts her away mid-leap. She shrieks in protest. 

"If this is a bad time—" Lestrade starts. 

"Never a bad time for murder," Sherlock says. 

John looks at him. 

_Case,_ Sherlock mouths. 

Rosie shrieks again, writhes in John's arms. John shuts his eyes. Shakes his head. 

Sherlock hesitates. Bites his lip. "Text me the address." 

*

The case is disappointing. He has it wrapped up within an hour, solves a case of mistaken identity over Twitter on the cab ride home for good measure. 

He wonders if John regrets turning down Julia's dinner invitation. 

_Leave it,_ John had said, but Sherlock has never been very good at letting things alone. 

*

"How was it?" John asks. He is on the floor with Rosie in the sitting room, watching as she crashes two toy cars together over and over and over again. 

"Boring," Sherlock tells him. "The supposed victim inadvertently poisoned himself." 

John smiles a bit, but it does not reach his eyes. "Yeah? How'd he manage that?" 

Sherlock opens his mouth to explain, hesitates. John does not look particularly interested. John looks like he is being polite, like he is fulfilling an obligation, ticking a box. 

John's smile is a veneer stretched painfully thin, barely masking exhaustion and misery. 

Rosie smacks the cars together. Giggles. Grabs for them again. 

"Not even worth the time it would take to explain," Sherlock says, with a dismissive little flick of his hand. "Boring. I'll fall asleep if I have to think about it again."

"Right," John says, and looks away. 

*

Later, when Rosie has been put to bed, John returns downstairs.

Sherlock is still in his chair. He watches as John goes to the sink, fills a glass of water. Watches as John leans against the counter and drinks from the glass, long slow pulls that make his Adam's apple bob. Watches as he rinses the glass, sets it aside to dry. Watches as he stands with both hands braced on the counter. 

Sherlock shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, John has made his way into the sitting room. He bypasses his chair, heads for the sofa. Sits. He does not reach for the remote. 

The silence in the room is heavy.

"Rosie's costing you a fortune in dry cleaning," John says. 

Sherlock blinks. It is not what he expected John to say. "She's a toddler," he says. "Strong desire for independence paired with limited coordination. It's to be expected." 

John smiles tightly. He brings up his hand to rub at the back of his neck, an uncomfortable gesture. He's nervous. Mentioning his daughter puts him ill at ease. There is something weighing on him. 

"I don't think you really could have expected any of this," he says. 

Sherlock inclines his head, concedes the point. "Perhaps not." 

"Friday nights are different now," John says with a tired little laugh.

Sherlock looks down at his hands. He wonders what John is really trying to say. Friday nights are not the only things that are different. Perhaps he really does regret turning down that dinner invitation after all. 

There will be others. He'll choose differently, next time. 

John leans his head back against the sofa cushions. Closes his eyes. He exhales, a slow, shuddering breath. 

"I'm just going to rest my eyes," John says. 

Sherlock does not respond. He watches as John's chest rises and falls, the motion evening out, growing deeper, steadier. After a few moments John's head tilts gently to the side, his mouth falling open. He emits a faint, rasping snore. 

It is late, and the flat is very quiet. In the kitchen, the refrigerator hums gently. 

John has fallen deeply asleep. 

He will be sore in the morning, Sherlock thinks, looking at the angle of John's neck. 

He debates waking him, sending him upstairs to his little room. He will be more comfortable in his own bed. But he will not sleep as well. 

Sherlock approaches the sofa. He reaches out, his fingers ghosting over John's shoulder. 

John hums, shifts a bit. The gentle snoring stops as he rolls his head against the cushions. He does not wake. 

Sherlock stands for a time, just watching him breathe. His own heart beats steadily in his chest. It should not feel like drowning, he thinks. He is simply standing in his own flat, looking at a friend.

*

"Sorry," John says, in the morning. He sits, bleary and rumpled on the sofa, rubbing at the back of his neck. 

Sherlock is in the kitchen with Rosie. She is bright-eyed and cheerful, contentedly consuming a sliced banana. She has slept well.

"I didn't mean to—" John gestures towards the sofa, shrugs. The dark circles under his eyes have faded a bit. "You got her up. Thanks. You didn't have to—you could have just—" 

"It's fine," Sherlock says. Rosie grabs for his sleeve, leaving a smear of banana on his suit jacket. 

John looks away. 

*

They eat lunch together. Rosie insists on holding the spoon and feeding herself from a cup of yoghurt. Half of it winds up dribbled down the front of her shirt. The other half winds up on Sherlock's. 

Rosie beams at him. There is yoghurt on her chin, smeared across the bridge of her nose.

"Sorry," John says. He is not smiling. He looks tired and uncomfortable and unhappy. 

"It's all right," Sherlock says. He goes to the sink, runs the tap. Wets a flannel. 

John taps his fingers against the wood surface of the kitchen table, a staccato rhythm. He seems unaware that he is doing it. His gaze is distant. 

Sherlock mops the yoghurt off of Rosie's face. 

"What kind of person steals a cadaver as a prank?" John asks. He takes the flannel from Sherlock's hand. 

Sherlock shrugs. Looks at him. "I suspect a combination of failing grades, substance abuse, and poor impulse control." 

John presses his lips together in a hard sort of smile, shakes his head. He throws a pointed look towards the refrigerator. 

"It's not here," Sherlock says. He smiles. "And I don't do _pranks._ I conduct valid and necessary experiments." 

John's hard little smile softens into something almost genuine. 

After lunch, John puts Rosie in the bath. 

Sherlock goes into his room, changes his shirt. Then he hesitates, listening through the thin door. Splashing. Giggling. It makes him ache, that sound. He does not quite know why. 

John is different with Rosie when Sherlock is not around. More relaxed. 

Sherlock is fairly sure that John would not like to hear that thought verbalised, and so he keeps it to himself. It is, he thinks, not surprising. He is many things, but comforting has never been one of them. 

John hums. Something low, something repetitive. Da- _dum_. Da- _dum_. Da- _dum_.

It takes Sherlock a moment to place it. It is from a film. 

There is a wild splashing. 

"Shark!" John shouts, and Rosie laughs and laughs and laughs. 

_I swear it had a human hand in its mouth._

"Oh," Sherlock says. And then, again, as the realisation takes hold, crashing over him in a wave of considerable dismay. " _Oh._ "

He is careful to be very quiet when he leaves the flat. John does not even notice.


End file.
